


it's our time now if you want it to be

by feloosha (gwencelot)



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Background Marrow/Clover, Background Taiyang/Summer, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Multi, Rating will change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwencelot/pseuds/feloosha
Summary: James is the reluctant heir to the kingdom of Atlas. There's just one problem—he's gay, and his father  expects him to marry a woman and carry on the Ironwood name. When he's kidnapped by the most notorious tribe in Remnant for ransom, he meets Qrow Branwen, the snarky, closed off brother of the tribe's leader charged with keeping an eye on him. As he adapts to tribe life and grows ever closer to Qrow, James learns a whole lot about the struggles outside the kingdom, and discovers that maybe, just maybe, following your heart is the best way to lead your people.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Comments: 21
Kudos: 61





	1. a day in the life

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii. I wanted to do a Royal AU, so here we are. Just some context: This takes place in basically the same universe as canon, but we've got royals and shit. Same technology, semblances, etc. Also just for reference, Atlas isn't in the air in this fic, but a kingdom surrounded by Mantle rather than Mantle being underneath it. 
> 
> [See what's in the works at my tumblr!](https://feloosha.tumblr.com/wip)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is just a lot of exposition and build up, meant to introduce you to James as a character. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> [See what's in the works at my tumblr!](https://feloosha.tumblr.com/wip)

_“I’m getting impatient.”_

_“I’m terribly sorry, I just need more time, I—”_

_“You’ve had your time. Don’t make me take matters into my own hands.”_

_“...Yes. It will be done.”_

* * *

Every year on Prince James’ birthday, his father throws an extravagant feast in celebration. At least, that’s what he disguises it as. The prince knows better.

* * *

James wakes slowly, his body acknowledging consciousness first with a large stretch from head to toe, mind following when he blinks his eyes open and remembers what day it is, the revelation pulling a groan from his lips.

He lets himself lay in bed for a moment, head lolling to the side to stare at the sun filtering in through the window. Had he not closed the curtains last night? Had one of the help come in before he woke up? James frowns, turning his head the other way to look for any evidence of the latter. There’s no breakfast on the table, no fresh linens waiting to be dispensed in his absence, no nothing. He must have left them open.

When James decides he finally needs to get out of bed and sits up, he nearly doubles over in pain, left hand flying up to grab his right shoulder. _Shit_ that hurts. An ache deep in his muscles, in his bones—at least it would be if he had them there. Instead, his hand connects with the hard metal of his prosthetic arm, which shouldn’t hurt at all. It seems a checkup with his prosthetist is in order.

“Great,” James mutters, letting out a hiss of pain as he forces himself to get up, shuffling over to the en suite and looking at himself in the mirror. He brings his left hand up to run fingers through his hair, grimacing at the grays peppered throughout.

Another year gone by. And what to show for it?

With a sigh, James reaches down to the hem of his shirt to pull it off, trying not to jostle his right arm, and carefully avoids looking in the mirror once it’s gone. He repeats the process with his pants and underwear, tossing them into the hamper and pressing the button to start the shower. It heats up instantly—thank god for the wonders of technology—but James closes his eyes, lets the room fog up until he can barely see anything.

It’s easier this way.

* * *

By the time James is showered, dressed, and ready for the day, the rest of the palace is alive with noise and hustle and bustle. Normally, he would appreciate the excitement, a stark contrast to the usually monotonous routine of palace life, but—but. He knows what’s going on. Knows what this is for. And he just wants it to be over.

He side-steps guests and workers alike in his haste to get to Pietro’s lab. His prosthetist has been cleverly situated in the wing adjacent to the one his own rooms are in, just in case there ever arises a situation in which James needs him immediately, but he remembers a time when this wing was completely vacant, rooms upon rooms with no use, nothing but empty space. 

He trails his fingers along the wall with a frown as he walks. Come to think of it, besides Pietro and his assistants, James doesn’t know what else this wing is used for. He thinks about the people living on the outskirts of Atlas in Mantle, cold and hungry, too many on the streets to count. He thinks about his father’s scoffs whenever James suggests sending more provisions, extending the heating grid. And yet here they are, with more space and luxury than they know what to do with.

It makes him feel sick.

Before long, James finds himself outside of the lab, and he’s surprised when the door doesn’t immediately respond to his motion and slide open. He shifts awkwardly, raising his hand to rap on the metal. There’s a bang behind the door, muffled cursing, and then it slides open quickly, bringing him face to face with just the man he wants to see.

“My boy!” Pietro’s deep voice greets him cheerfully, and James can’t help but smile. Always in good spirits.

“Sir,” he returns, stepping further into the lab. “Is the door…”

“Broken,” Pietro grumbles, hand coming down to slap the manual button on the wall to close it again. “Has been for a while. But you didn’t come to hear about that! I got your message. I’ll take a look at your arm, but I’d like to look at everything else as well.”

James hums in agreement and lets his eyes wander for a moment, taking in everything that’s different since his last visit. There are more holo-screens displayed than ever, blueprints and 3-D models spinning in thin air, but one in particular catches his interest. James walks closer to it, peering at what looks to be the model of a girl. “New project?”

Pietro chuckles, making his way to a workbench scattered with papers and parts. He sweeps them away easily, patting the space beside him. “Just an idea. Come.”

James does, seating himself neatly beside the other man, right side facing him. He flinches automatically when Pietro reaches for his glove, then sighs, removing it himself, his pullover following with some difficulty. He’s left in his sleeveless undershirt, feeling much too exposed. Pietro wastes no time in picking up James’ right arm, inspecting the metal carefully.

“It’s been a while, James,” he murmurs as he works, testing the joints of each finger, smoothing his hands across the plating to check for any ridges. “They should be checked every six months.”

“I know,” James replies guiltily, lifting his arm obediently when Pietro guides it up, and wincing when it bends at his shoulder. Pietro hums, turning around to rummage through his tools. He emerges with a small screwdriver and a pair of pliers, and gets to work removing one of the plates on James’ upper arm. “I haven’t had much in the way of free time, lately. My father—”

“Yes, your father,” Pietro interrupts, voice full of hardly concealed annoyance. “How _is_ the king doing? I can’t seem to get an audience with him as of late, despite his insistence that he needs final approval on all research and supply orders…” He removes the plate successfully, sets it aside, and peers into the inner workings of the arm, brow furrowed. James glances down, frowning.

“Is there anything you’re in immediate need of? I may be able to rush a shipment.” Pietro looks thoughtful as he positions the pliers.

“No,” he answers, sighing. “No, it can wait. In the meantime, I can work with what I have.” He gestures to the arm with his free hand. “It’s a disconnected wire. It’s confusing your sensors into thinking there should be pain when there isn’t.” James feels it as soon as the wire is reconnected, relief flooding through him as the pain ebbs away.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“I may need to replace the wire or the site of the connection if it happens again.” Pietro shrugs, putting the tools back where they came from before looking up at James apologetically. “I need to look at the rest.”

James blinks. “Oh, of course.” He hesitates for only a moment before pulling his undershirt off, pausing with his fingers in the waistband of his pants. It’s nothing Pietro hasn’t seen before, James reminds himself, unbuttoning his pants and setting them aside along with his right shoe. He bends his leg at the knee and rests his foot on the workbench to alert Pietro that he’s ready.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes while Pietro runs his checks: power cells intact, no sharp edges on the plating, sensors activating properly, joints bending as they should. James looks around to try and distract himself when Pietro pulls his underwear down slightly to check the connections at his hip, but he seems satisfied and quickly pulls them back up.

“You’re lucky,” Pietro concludes, back to his cheerful self. James grabs his clothes to pull them back on. “Everything else seems to be in order. I’ll send a full report to your Scroll.” He pauses, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Can I expect you in six months?”

When James finally has everything back on he glances at the door, then back to Pietro guiltily. “Sooner, if I can help it. I’d like to treat you to dinner and catch up. But today, I have to…”

“I know, I know,” Pietro waves him off, a twinkle in his eye as James taps the button to open the door. “Happy birthday.”

James pauses. “Thank you, sir.” And he’s off.

* * *

He’s hoping to have some time to himself after his appointment, but James should know better. When he turns the corner to go back to his room, he sees Klein, his father’s steward, pacing outside his door. When he spots James coming towards him, he purses his lips, looking annoyed.

James groans internally, but ever polite, exchanges pleasantries. “Good to see you, Klein. Was there something you needed?”

“You shouldn’t even be asking me that,” Klein snaps. “Your father sent over a very specific schedule this morning that must be adhered to if today is to go perfectly. You’re late for your fitting.” Standing a foot shorter than James, Klein shouldn’t be intimidating, but the way his eyes flash always gives James pause. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Klein will run straight to his father and he’ll never hear the end of it.

“I was just fitted last week,” James says patiently, trying to edge past him to get to his room. “I assure you my measurements are the same.”

“I didn’t ask,” Klein hisses, blocking his way again. James sighs, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “There is a schedule. Follow it.” Klein gives James a final glare and raise of his eyebrows and stomps off down the hall in the opposite direction James needs to go, thank god. James rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment before turning away to start the short walk to where the palace’s personal tailor is, apparently, waiting for him.

It’s not his favorite place in the palace, if he’s being honest with himself. The bright, harsh lights, though necessary for the detail that goes into sewing and tailoring, leave his eyes burning for hours after he leaves, and there’s something unnerving about being able to see himself from multiple angles all at once thanks to the mirrors lining the walls. Still, it’s a necessary evil, doubly so as a prince who is expected to be seen in a different outfit for every occasion.

James steels himself before opening the door, eyes automatically squinting in response to the light assaulting them. As usual, the dressing rooms are chaotic and messy, but he knows that’s how Maria and Roman like it.

“James!” Speak of the devil. James turns a smile on Roman, half-buried under a pile of fabrics in the corner. “Give me—just a sec—” He watches Roman struggle for a moment before taking pity on him, walking over and reaching a hand out, the other coming up to try and stifle a laugh. Roman glares but takes his hand all the same, releasing a small “oof” as he’s pulled to his feet.

“Just you today?” James asks when he’s righted himself, glancing around. He doesn’t see Maria, but who knows; she could be buried somewhere, too.

 _“Just_ me?” Roman scoffs, placing a hand on his hip and cocking it, an arrogant smile on his face. “I’m the only one you need, handsome.”

“Yeah, yeah,” James rolls his eyes, turning away to step onto the platform situated in the middle of the room. “I was told I needed to be fitted for tonight’s outfit… again.”

“Oh, yes,” Roman says, the cocky inflection of his voice changing into one of annoyance. “I can’t tell you how much I despise doing the same work over and over again.” He sighs, walking over to a rack of outfits and plucking out James’. “My measurements are perfect.”

“I know, Roman.”

 _“Do_ you, now?” Roman clicks his tongue as he carefully sets each piece out by itself: greatcoat, vest, button down, undershirt, dress pants. “Well as long as _you_ know…”

“I didn’t make the order, Roman.” James reminds him, taking a deep breath before beginning to undress. Roman pays him little mind, waiting until James is down to his underwear to start handing him the pieces to put on.

“I know.” He says eventually, sounding a little defeated. “I can’t stand that little…”

“Careful.” James smiles, doing up the last button on his vest. He holds his arms out for Roman to start measuring. “The palace has ears.”

Roman scoffs again but stays silent, running his tape measure quickly along the length of James’s arms, then around the biceps, around his middle. He moves on to the inseam of the pants, then back up to the waist. 

“All perfect, wouldn’t you know,” he says sarcastically, gesturing for James to put on the coat. The fabric slips easily around him, and James has to appreciate how comfortable Roman and Maria have managed to make this many layers feel. Roman starts the measuring process over again at his arms.

“How are Junior and the kids?” James asks, meeting Roman’s eyes in the mirror and looking at the his face carefully. James doesn’t miss how the corners of Roman’s mouth turn down slightly, the way his nose crinkles in an effort to keep his face expressionless. “You know, if you ever need anything…”

“We’re just fine,” Roman says stiffly, bending down to study the hem of the coat. “The bar is getting more customers than ever.” James considers his words, toying with the buttons of his vest. The implications of a bar in Mantle suddenly getting more patronage as the kingdom receives more complaints about conditions and morale aren’t lost on him. 

“Alright,” James says, turning around so he can speak to Roman face to face. “The offer stands.” When Roman opens his mouth to protest again, James holds up a hand with a smile. “I’ll drop it. I just want you to keep it in mind.”

Releasing a shaky breath, Roman nods, bringing his hands up to make a few small adjustments to the collar. It’s subtle, but James hears the relief in Roman’s voice when he breathes out a quiet, “Thank you.”

* * *

James follows the rest of the schedule his father has laid out for him to a T before returning to his room, but when he hears the telltale click of Glynda’s heels approaching him from behind, he can’t help but whip around a hold up his hands defensively. She stops in front of him, one eyebrow raising as her arms fold across her chest. It’s times like these that James has no doubt in his mind why his father chose her to be in charge of palace weaponry training and handling; she can be downright terrifying when she wants to be.

“Glynda,” he greets her, lowering his hands slowly when she doesn’t immediately start lecturing him. “Great to see you.”

“You’re not in trouble, James,” Glynda says, an amused smile pulling at her lips despite the flatness of her tone. She gestures to the door behind James. “May I come in?”

James blinks. “Oh, uh, of course.” He opens the door quickly, stepping aside to let her in first. It’s odd, seeing Glynda like this; the stiff way she holds herself and her no-nonsense attitude feel out of place outside the training field, but he supposes it must serve her well at court, too.

When James steps in behind her, he immediately notices two things out of place. The first is his formal outfit laid out on his bed, which he was expecting, since Roman told him he would have his outfit dropped off within the hour. But the second catches him by surprise: a dark metal box lays on the table in the middle of the room, rectangular and about the size of a briefcase. James stares at it for just a second before turning back to Glynda. It would be rude to investigate now.

However, to his surprise, Glynda walks straight to it, beckoning James to follow. He looks down at it with her, a question on the tip of his tongue, but again Glynda is one step ahead of him. When she opens the box, James’ words die on his lips. 

Glynda clears her throat. “I had it made for you. You’ve always had that spare holster...” James nods silently, finally reaching down to pick up one of the items before him. It’s a near replica of his signature revolver, Due Process, complete with intricate floral patterns on the sides and a barrel equipped to hold Dust bullets. The only difference he can see is in the color; while Due Process is a shiny silver, this gun’s barrel is a matte black. “You can use it for whatever you’d like, but I intended it to be used with Gravity Dust to give you more mobility.”

At her words, James finally notices the Gravity Dust crystals resting in the case as well. “Glynda…” He turns the gun over in his hands, feels a tight pressure build in his chest. He had forged Due Process years ago under Glynda’s direction and support, despite his father’s disapproval (“It’s just not _proper,_ James, the Ironwoods have always forged blades as a symbol of strength in Atlas.”), and the fact that she had done this for him, presumably behind the king’s back... “This is… I don’t know how to…”

“James.” He looks up, and Glynda’s face is soft, the kindest he’s ever seen her look. She rests a hand on his arm—the right one—and smiles. James nods. 

Nothing more needs to be said.

* * *

The thing James has been dreading all days comes faster than he likes, and before he knows it, he’s accompanying his father to the head of the dining hall, standing beside him as he makes his annual speech. James smiles politely and tunes him out, words like “birthday” and “promise” and “eligible” washing over him and barely registering. Finally he falls silent, and they sit down to the sound of hundreds of people clapping in tandem, the noise echoing around the hall.

Since his coronation five years ago marking him the one true heir apparent to the king, James’ father has used his birthday as an excuse to gather potential spouses from all the kingdoms in the hopes James will finally marry. He looks on in disdain as noble folk local and foreign alike fill cup after cup of wine, heave piles of food onto their plates only to abandon them halfway through. This day is a waste in more ways than one. 

James loses track of how many women drop by the high table to speak to him and his father. In the following hours that pass, he kisses the hand of Princess Amber of Vale; exchanges pleasantries with Lady Sienna of Anima; and endures the cold stare of Mistral’s Princess Cinder while trying to make small talk. In fairness to her, the feeling is mutual; she’s _much_ too young to be paraded around at these events, and it leaves James with a bad taste in his mouth.

Eventually, James excuses himself by pretending to see someone important across the room. He expertly dodges another one of his suitors before she can strike up a conversation and glances at his father; he’s deep in conversation with the king of Vale at the head of the dining table, so he takes his chance to retreat into the hallway. Leaning against the door, James allows himself a moment of peace. Tonight is almost over, and then things can go back to normal until next year.

“Sir?” His eyes fly open, afraid he’s caught, but James is only greeted by the knowing smirk of one of his personally trained Ace-Ops, the best of the best in the Atlas military.

“Clover,” he breathes a sigh of relief, beckoning the man as he takes a few steps down the hall. Clover falls into step easily, hands held behind him at parade rest, proper as always. “I just needed a moment. These parties, they can be… overwhelming.”

“I understand, sir,” Clover answers easily, and James rolls his eyes.

“Enough. I’ve told you you can call me James.”

“I don’t think your father would approve of that, sir.” This time, Clover’s voice has an amused lilt, and James fights a smile himself.

He stops when they reach the end of the hall, paths diverging on either side to lead to the kitchen and the library. James considers leaving the party altogether, disappearing for the night in one of the palace’s many hideaways, but decides against it, turning back around with a sigh.

Clover raises his eyebrows, posture faltering for just a second, but it’s enough for James’ trained eyes to see it. “Is there anything I can help with, si—James?” James considers his answer. He trusts Clover.

“Can you get through to my father and convince him that no matter how many parties he throws, I will not be wed to any of these women?”

And it’s the truth; James Ironwood, beloved prince of the kingdom of Atlas, expected to produce a natural heir upon his ascension of the throne, has no interest in these noblewomen, or _any_ women, and would, in fact, sooner bed Cardin, the blacksmith’s infuriatingly arrogant son.

Okay, maybe he wouldn’t take it that far.

Not to mention… James curls his right hand reflexively, feeling the metal shift against his glove. It’s wishful thinking to hope his father will never learn how much the accident truly took from him, but he’s gotten this far without having _that_ particular question asked. Perhaps he’ll continue being lucky in that regard.

Clover blinks, understanding slowly spreading across his face. He nods sagely, and begins walking back to the dining room. James follows.

“As much as I sympathize with your plight, I’m afraid your father certainly won’t listen to me if he hasn’t already to you. But,” he glances back, eyes twinkling. “I can assure you you’re not the only one with those… inclinations in the kingdom.” 

James considers his words. “But I am the one with an obligation to the throne.” And god, James has spent his whole life being reminded of that. 

As a child, attending meetings at his father’s feet, being made to listen as adults discussed his future. As a teenager, obediently listening to his father lay out his future, _responsibilities_ and _duty_ and _honor._ As a young adult, awkwardly flirting back with princesses and noblewomen chosen for him while feeling absolutely nothing. Realizing what this meant, but kissing them anyway. 

Trying to push down his feelings of shame and do what needed to be done.

And finally, as an adult, coming to terms with who he is, knowing he can never be what his father wants. But still determined to be a good ruler when the time comes.

Clover escorts him as far as the door, saluting him with a sympathetic look on his face. He slides his eyes to the right when someone turns the corner, a slow smile spreading on his lips as the Ace-Ops’ newest member comes into view, fussing with a scarf around his neck.

“Marrow.” James greets him, smirking when Marrow looks up, startled, eyes darting to Clover quickly and then back.

“Oh, sir!” He salutes quickly, free hand dropping and leaving the scarf a rumpled, half-tucked mess.

“Here.” To James’s surprise, Clover approaches him, not stopping until he’s right in Marrow’s space to fix it, reaching up without hesitation. Marrow eyes James for another moment, gauging his reaction; when James only raises his eyebrows with a grin, Marrow shifts his gaze away with a small smile of his own, looking up at Clover through his lashes. 

James has a feeling he knows who Clover was talking about now.

“Well, I’ll leave you two,” he sighs, turning away and resting a gloved hand on the handle of the door, hesitating. Pushing it open, James inhales through his nose, rolls his neck, and grabs a glass of wine as he enters back into the fray, trying not to crush the delicate glass between hidden metal fingers in his frustration. 

He has a feeling it’s the first drink of many.

* * *

James knows he’s gone a little too far when he ends up doubled over the toilet in his bathroom later that night, emptying his stomach of all its contents for the third time. He breathes steadily, hoping that’s the last of it; mixing beer and wine and _not taking a break_ isn’t as easy as it used to be, but it had certainly made the party more bearable at the time. He reaches up to flush and wipes the back of his mouth with a grimace.

“James?” He recognizes Summer’s voice immediately, sweet and laced with concern, coming faintly from the other room.

“In here, Summer,” James calls weakly, glad that it’s her of all people to find him. With as long as they’ve known each other, she’s seen him in much worse shape.

“Tai’s here too.” Her voice sounds slightly closer, like she’s entered the bedroom but is hanging back. “We saw you leave dinner. Are you okay?”

“Define _okay,”_ he groans as he feels his stomach churn again, and when he finally stands, the room is still spinning. Taiyang’s head pops around the door, grinning at him.

“Hey buddy,” Tai lets himself in and loops an arm around James’ back, using the other to grab his wrist and guide him back into the bedroom. James tries not to lean against him too much—Tai is strong, but James is _big_ and _half metal—_ as he’s walked to his bed, laid down gently. His head lolls to the side, eyes searching for Summer, who comes to sit beside him, running her hands through his sweaty hair.

“Where’s Ruby?” James mutters, closing his eyes and leaning into it. He feels Tai settle down on his other side, warm and solid. “I hope I’m not keeping you from her.”

“Such a gentleman even when he’s drunk off his ass,” Tai snorts beside him, slinging an arm over James’ chest and resting his chin on his shoulder. James opens his eyes to turn his head and glare, but even that slight movement sends a wave of nausea over him. Tai lowers his hand, rubbing James’ stomach lightly. “Relax. She’s with Bart. He’s been dying to babysit.”

“James,” Summer sighs, something sad in her voice. “Focus. What happened?”

James looks up at her, deep blue meeting shining silver. The feeling of her hands in his hair, concern etched on her face, showing up right when he needs her—it’s like being ten years old again, isolated and lonely until the orphaned Duchess of Mistral showed up at court to live under his father’s protection, fierce and protective and everything James needed in a friend. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with affection for her, and brings a hand up to cup her cheek, the smooth fabric of the glove gliding easily over her skin.

“Why couldn’t I be straight?” He mumbles, eliciting a laugh from Tai in his ear. Summer understands and isn’t amused, her frown deepening. James closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see her. “I’m fine. Thank you for helping me get to bed. I’d like to retire now.”

“That’s his polite way of telling us to fuck off,” Tai stage-whispers to Summer, patting James’ shoulder as he sits up. Summer hesitates, but when James turns away, she simply squeezes his hand before following her husband out the door. James waits until he hears the door shut and their footsteps fade away and lets out a shaky sigh, rolling over to flop onto his stomach and bury his face into the sheets. 

He breathes in deeply, but the sterile smell of the palace’s fresh linens does nothing to make him feel better. With a groan, James rolls over again, staring up at the canopy draped over his bed, losing himself in the rolls of dark fabric, stitches of constellations sewn in. Maria, ever the experienced seamstress, had truly outdone herself. Perhaps he should commission custom sheets, as well. 

Before long, James feels his eyelids growing heavy, stomach finally settling enough that he knows he won’t be sick again. He considers getting up to take off his formal attire, but can’t muster up the strength to do so, and doesn’t remember falling into a deep sleep. He’s not sure how much time passes, but the next thing James knows, he’s being awoken by a rustling noise near the window. He lifts his head slowly, sticky with sweat and wincing at the pounding in his temples. It’s still dark out, but he never got up to turn the lights off, and he can see someone’s shadow on the other side of the bed.

“Summer?” James croaks, starting to sit up. It would be just like her to come check up on him in the middle of the night.

“Not exactly.” He doesn’t recognize the voice, but it doesn’t matter; one second he’s reaching for Due Process and the new gun at his belt, and the next, everything goes black.

* * *

Humming.

A voice too high and airy to be anything but a child’s is all around him, floating between being close to him and then a bit farther away. James keeps his eyes closed for the moment, trying to take in his surroundings as much as his can with his other senses.

Beyond the humming, he can hear murmurs, other people conversing in low voices. Crickets chirping all around. The crackling of a fire. He smells smoke, too, so it must be close. His cheek is smushed against something hard and cold—dirt on the ground, if he had to guess—and his wrists are bound behind his back, tight. His head feels foggy, hangover mixed with something else. All in all, the situation could be better.

James finally cracks his eyes open, letting them adjust. He sees the fabric of a tent a few feet in front of him, well-lit by several Dust lanterns scattered about the ground, but can’t see much else from this angle. He uses what little strength he feels in his bones to wrench his body to the side, successfully flipping over to face the other side of the tent… and a small pair of boots.

He looks up slowly, but his eyes don’t have to travel far before they meet bright violet, wide and surprised, and the humming abruptly stops. 

Before James can say anything, the little girl in front of him screeches, “Uncle Qrow!”

James winces, her voice like a knife in his ears. Even if he weren’t hungover, he has a feeling it would have been enough to give him a headache. She watches him warily, hands reaching up to tug at long, blonde hair, biting her lip until it turns white. She opens her mouth again, and James braces himself for another yell—

“What’s up, firecracker?” A new voice joins them, thankfully in time to stop her. James sees a new pair of boots stop in front of his face. “Oh, he’s awake.” He doesn’t even have to look up to see the newcomer as he leans down to greet him with a smirk. Eyes as red as blood bore into his own, and James’ head feels hazier than ever. “Hey there, prince. You’re a long way from home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about using Klein that way, but I couldn't think of anyone else to use as an annoying little steward lol. Just imagine it's Klein in his crazy form at all times.
> 
> Anyway, I'm not sure how long this will be, but I have the plot all done in my noggin. Who knows what crazy twists and turns it will take!


	2. there's a place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James' first day with the Branwen Tribe is anything but uneventful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is like 1% plot in this chapter lol. We're here for character development before getting into all that.

By the time whatever drugs he had been knocked out with seem to be wearing off, James is alone in the tent. The man—Qrow, he remembers that, offered with a wink while yanking James up into a sitting position—still hasn’t returned, having left the tent soon after James woke up. He shifts his wrists tentatively, trying to get a feel for the restraints. It feels like rope—thick, but not without some give. 

James flexes his right hand, considering. Most likely his right arm is strong enough to break him out, though it would result in some serious strain and maybe even bruising to his left wrist. And then what would he do? The belt holstering his guns is gone, along with both pistols, as to be expected. He has no idea where he is. No idea how many people are outside the tent. And it’s the middle of the night as far as he can tell.

No, James isn’t going anywhere, at least not right now.

Resigned, he leans back slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t have his muscles screaming at him. It’s not easy; between spending who-knows-how-long lying on the ground and now sitting with no back support, James can’t imagine how much he’s going to be hurting soon. 

He lets his eyes wander the tent idly for something to do, taking in what he couldn’t from his position on the floor. It’s no Atlas tent, military-issued and imbued with Fire Dust to envelop its users in warmth, but it has a certain… _charm_ to it, James supposes, and looks lived-in rather than serving as a temporary shelter. There’s a single bed wedged into the corner to his left with a small end-table beside it, its single drawer shut tight; a worn-looking chest sitting across from James, which he figures must hold clothes; and a small table and wooden chair directly to his right.

James is considering trying to stand up to sit on the chair when Qrow appears again, pulling back the flap of the tent and stepping in. He tosses a bundle of something on the bed, rounding on James with a mildly annoyed look on his face.

“I guess I’m stuck with you tonight,” Qrow huffs, flopping down on the ground beside James, stretching long legs out in front of him. “Got you a blanket.”

James looks at him, nonplussed. “Am I supposed to sleep in these restraints?”

Qrow looks down idly. “Oh, forgot about those.” James rolls his eyes. Of course. “Well, you have to know there’s no way we can untie you. Tomorrow we can probably adjust them to be in the front, though.” Qrow brings his hands together in front of himself in an imitation of having his hands tied, wiggling his fingers.

James sighs. “Fine. Can you at least give me some idea of _what_ exactly I’m doing here?” He watches as Qrow leans back on his hands and tilts his head to the side with a smirk, messy black hair falling into his face. He is, James thinks with a frown, annoyingly attractive. He has a feeling Qrow knows it, too.

“Afraid that’s not my story to tell, Jimmy,” Qrow says, smirk widening at the look on James’ face.

“It’s James.”

“Uh huh.” Qrow taps the tips of his shoes together, shrugging. “You’ll talk to my sister in the morning. She’ll tell you… well, she’ll tell you whatever she wants you to know, I guess. Anyway...” He stands up, brushing his pants off. “I’m beat. You want water or anything before I pass out?”

James shakes his head, eyes drifting to the blanket Qrow brought, mouth turning up in a humorless smile. “Are you going to tuck me in?” To James’ surprise, Qrow barks out a laugh, sharp and raspy. When he reaches over to grab the blanket, James notices for the first time the weapon clipped onto his belt, partially obscured by the ripped cape hanging from his shoulders. It’s hard to tell, but James thinks he sees the tip of a blade. Qrow hesitates for a second before grabbing a pillow from his bed as well, turning around before can James look away. 

Qrow hums, stepping forward to lay the pillow down next to him. “Don’t get any ideas about Harbinger.” At James’ raised eyebrows, the corner of his mouth lifts, red eyes narrowing. “You can’t handle it.”

James snickers in spite of himself, shrugging as best he can in the restraints. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Mhm.” Qrow lingers awkwardly, holding the blanket above him. “Uh, do you wanna…” He gestures to the pillow. James rolls his eyes, shifting until he can tilt himself over, his head landing on the pillow with a soft grunt. Qrow looks like he’s trying not to laugh when he shakes out the blanket, leaning down slightly to throw it over James’ body. He takes a step back, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “Sorry about the ground. We’ll have something figured out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” James murmurs, watching as Qrow makes his way around the tent to dim the Dust lamps before sprawling out on his bed. Hopefully a lot of things will be figured out tomorrow.

* * *

James isn’t expecting the royal (ha) treatment per se, but he’s also not expecting the glares he receives from all sides as he’s escorted across the camp the next morning. A hush had fallen immediately upon his exit from the tent, and the silence in the face of a relatively large group of people—bandits, by the looks of them—is unnerving. Qrow leads the way, hands shoved into his pockets and back hunched just slightly. He throws James an occasional look over his shoulder, as if James is going to go anywhere while his hands are still tied.

When they reach a large tent at the head of the camp, Qrow pauses, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Listen,” he says after a moment, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “We’re not gonna hurt you.” He pauses again, eyes drifting towards the tent. “Probably.”

“That’s reassuring.” James deadpans. Qrow seems surprised and grins, shaking his head. He steps forward to enter the tent, waving James in after him. 

The tent has been set up to create the illusion of multiple “rooms,” fabric draped strategically around poles or tied back. The room they’re in is sparse, empty but for a table, a kotatsu, and several cushions presumably for seating. James looks around aimlessly and wiggles his wrists again, testing the restraints; they’ve become slightly looser in the night, but the possibility of injuring himself is still there. He stops when he hears the rustling of fabric, a woman emerging into the room before him.

“James Ironwood,” the woman says in a near growl. It fits; her face is obscured by a white mask lined with red veins, presumably meant to resemble Grimm. It’s been a long time since James has seen anything like it, real or otherwise; as much as they train for it, he’s not sure when the last time Atlas actually faced a Grimm attack.

“I think you mean _your highness,”_ Qrow quips from where he’s leaned against the table, snickering. He winks when James throws him an exasperated look.

“Brother, please,” the woman continues, advancing a few steps until she’s close enough to touch, had James’ hands been untied. “Hmm. How… disappointing.”

James bristles. “I’m sorry I’m not up to your standards,” he says through his teeth, turning his head as she begins to walk around him, circling him like prey. “Spending the night rolling in dirt has that effect.”

She stops in front of him again and, to James’ surprise, reaches up to remove her mask. Red eyes, harsher than Qrow’s, appraise him; despite being taller, James feels very small under her gaze. 

“Raven,” Qrow snaps after a moment of silence, clearly getting tired of the staring contest. The woman—Raven—looks at him, narrowing her eyes before turning away, setting her mask down next to Qrow.

“Ironwood,” she repeats, disdain evident in her tone. “I should kill you where you stand.”

James raises his eyebrows, looking quickly between her and Qrow, who looks bored. 

“I should,” she repeats, pausing before kneeling beside her kotatsu, taking a moment to settle before she continues, cutting her eyes back to James sharply. “But you’re more useful to me alive.” 

“Is this about ransom?” James cuts in. “If you need Lien—”

“You think I care about money,” Raven snaps back, clenching her fists over the small table. “But you don’t know anything. I’m protecting my family.” As if on cue, the little blond girl from before pokes her head in, eyes resting on each person in the tent in turn. She hesitates at the entrance, only stepping in once Raven nods her head, coming to settle down beside her. 

Watching James with open curiosity, she tilts her head and asks the question James is still wondering himself. “What’s he doing here, mom?”

“He won’t be here long, Yang,” Raven dodges the question easily, making Yang frown, her small face scrunching in annoyance. “Just until we get what we need.”

“And what is that?” James asks, trying to keep his composure. His muscles ache, his head is pounding, and he’s already tired of this back and forth. They’re getting nowhere.

“If it makes it easy for you to understand, then yes, _ransom,”_ Raven answers, rolling her eyes. She looks past him to address Qrow, waving her hand. “Get him out of here. I just wanted to ensure he was… in one piece.”

“What am I supposed to do with him?” Qrow demands. “He can’t just sleep on my floor forever.”

“Not forever,” Raven says coolly. “Figure it out.”

Qrow throws his hands up with a frustrated sigh. Raven glares. James looks between them, feeling very much like he did as a child stuck between two adults telling him what to do.

“Tch,” Qrow finally shakes his head with a defeated sigh and pushes himself off the wall, crooking a finger at James. “Come on, Jimmy, let’s let these two have their... _girl time.”_ He laughs, low and raspy, when Raven flips him off, but James looks at Yang quickly with an apologetic look on his face.

“Please,” Raven says, realizing what’s happening, smirking down at her daughter. “You can save your manners for when you get back to Atlas.”

James bites back a retort, turning to Qrow, who is holding the tent flap open with an unreadable look on his face. Qrow jerks his head and James follows him out, but he’s not expecting Qrow to take a sharp left, heading away from the tent they originally came from. James flounders for a moment, looking around with his hands still tied behind his back, before Qrow looks back at him over his shoulder.

“You coming?” He asks, as if James has a choice, the smirk he remembers from last night returning to his face. James looks back at the tent for just a second before sighing and following the other man. Seems like he’s not getting answers anytime soon.

* * *

When they’ve walked far enough that James can no longer see the spiked wooden posts making up the camp wall, he figures it’s safe to talk. Qrow had told him that his sister would tell him what was going on, but she’d divulged nearly nothing of value, and James wants _answers._ He’ll have to approach this carefully.

“So… your sister,” he starts, not missing the way Qrow’s shoulders tense as they walk side-by-side. He’s staring straight ahead through the thick trees in front of them, light filtering through to create pretty patterns on the grass and reflect off the dew left over from the morning. Among the lush green is the well-worn path of dirt they’re following, one James supposes Qrow has walked many times.

“What about her?” Qrow asks gruffly, leaning his head back to squint up at the sky before looking over at James. His expression is blank, but James has spent his whole life learning to read between the lines of carefully polite smiles and empty words.

“She didn’t exactly make it clear what she wants from me.”

“Not _you,”_ Qrow says. “Your family. Your father. The tribe hasn’t exactly received the best treatment from Atlas soldiers.” 

James shakes his head, trying not to get frustrated. “But I’m the one here. I deserve to know—”

“We’re all in the dark here, Jimmy,” Qrow interrupts, red eyes flashing. James recoils at the anger in his face, but it’s the first time Qrow has shown any real emotion during this conversation, and he counts it as a win.

“It’s James.”

“Whatever.” 

The light babbling of a river breaks through the rest of the forest’s ambient noise quite suddenly, and James isn’t surprised when they step through a clearing and end up on the shore of the water, winding down and out of sight on either side of them. Qrow clears his throat, and when James looks back at him, he’s unclipping his sword from his belt and spiking it into the ground. He turns to James, making a twirling motion with one of his fingers.

“Turn around.” James stares warily before doing as he’s told, surprised when he feels the knot of the restraints begin to loosen. Qrow’s fingers brush his gloved palms gently, and James can’t help but jump at the contact. “Relax,” Qrow huffs, finally removing the rope completely. “There.”

James turns around, rubbing at his left wrist and stretching his back experimentally. He’s still sore, but it could be worse. Qrow leans against his sword, watching him. Waiting.

“...Thanks,” James murmurs. “I guess.”

“Uh huh.” Qrow pulls Harbinger free, but instead of putting it away, he hauls it up to balance on his shoulder, backing away to settle against a tree. He sits down, laying the sword against his lap and tilting his face up to the sun. “This water is clean. You can wash up if you want.”

Oh. James blinks, glancing at the river and then back at Qrow. His eyes are closed, but his face looks far from relaxed, worry lines creasing his forehead and the skin around his mouth. James wonders if it’s due to the situation, or if he just always looks like that, but keeps his mouth shut. 

Instead, James kneels down beside the water, ignoring the mud smearing into his pants, already soiled by spending the night on the ground. He pauses, sparing Qrow another quick look before removing his gloves and placing them to the side carefully and rolling up his sleeves. The prosthetic gleams where the sun hits i, but when he dips both hands into the water and closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s as real as his left half.

As he lets the cold seep into his skin, James turns the events of the past day over in his head, thinking hard. The anger in Raven’s voice when she’d said his name… when she’d said _Ironwood._ She would prefer him dead, but needed him alive. Claimed to be protecting her family. Against what? What did it all mean? James cups his hands, leaning down to splash water onto his face and scrubbing at his skin with a frown. And Qrow had said he was in the dark too. But…

“What did you mean, ‘we’re all in the dark?’” James asks, deciding not to beat around the bush. He wipes his hands on his thighs and quickly rolls his sleeves back down before putting his gloves back on, but when he turns around, Qrow hasn’t even moved from his spot underneath the tree, eyes still closed. James hoists himself to his feet, and Qrow finally opens his eyes when James settles down beside him.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“Fair enough.” Qrow cracks a smile—a real smile, at least James thinks, and _oh,_ isn’t that just beautiful: the worry lines around his mouth fade into dimples; his eyes narrow, crinkled at the corners; and his lips curl past their usual smirk, stretching into genuine mirth. When Qrow tilts his head to look at him, James finds he can’t look away, and they watch each over the sound of the river babbling, the rustling of leaves in the wind.

A sudden snapping sound has them both looking up, and before he can even think about it, James is reaching forward to yank Qrow forward and practically into his lap, a large branch landing where Qrow had just been sitting. James gapes at the branch while Qrow crawls off of him, looking unbothered.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, grabbing Harbinger from where it had fallen out of his lap and standing up, brushing off his pants. “And sorry.”

“Oh…” James follows his lead, scrunching his nose in confusion. “What do you have to be sorry for? That was a close one. I’m happy to help.”

Qrow sighs, clipping his sword back to his belt, face schooled into something akin to boredom. “Forget it.” He rolls his eyes, adding almost as an afterthought, “You’re a prisoner, you shouldn’t be ‘happy’ to do anything.” 

James frowns; it seems what little progress he’d made in talking to Qrow has been reset, pulled back in an instant. He reaches out a hand to—to what? Offer comfort? James doesn’t really know—but Qrow notices the movement and it as leverage to pull him closer, producing the rope from his pocket to begin retying the restraints. “We should be getting back.”

“Listen, I’m not going to try to escape,” James tries to reason, knowing it won’t work. A man has to try.

Qrow smiles slyly up at him, batting his lashes. “I bet you say that to all the boys who kidnap you.”

_“Qrow…”_

“Jim,” Qrow mocks, tying off the restraints and testing them to make sure they’re tight enough. Seemingly satisfied, he gives one more stony look to the branch that nearly _impaled him_ before starting to walk back the way they came. James doesn’t need to be told to follow.

“I’m not stupid,” James says after a moment, deciding he’s not just going to let them walk in silence. “I don’t have a weapon. I’m outnumbered. And we’re, what, all the way out in… Anima, I’m guessing?” He tries not to look smug when Qrow whips around to stare at him. “I’ll admit I haven’t been out of Atlas in a very long time, and I suppose that’s why I know you would _have_ to cross the kingdom borders to even see anything… like this.” 

James spins around, trying to convey what he means. Trees, bodies of water, _nature,_ not artificial in the slightest, a far cry from Atlas’ climate controlled bubble in the middle of the tundra. He continues, “I do wonder how you managed to get me here, though.” Qrow opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but quickly closes it, walking away once again. James follows. “You would have had to get me past countless guards. Across a wasteland. All in less than a night? Can you explain that to me?” He presses, easily keeping up with Qrow when he begins walking faster.

Qrow cuts him an annoyed look, slowing down to his previous pace when he realizes James can more than keep up. “Can _you_ explain to _me_ why you can’t just shut up and sit there like every other person who’s ever been a prisoner?” There’s no heat behind his words, not really, so James figures he can get away with a little more. 

“‘Every other’, huh?” He says. “You do this often, taking people from their homes? Away from their people?”

“It’s not like that.” Qrow sounds frustrated now, their traipse through the woods becoming noisy as his footsteps fall more heavily, his arms coming up to bat at vines in his way. He curses as the band on his wrist gets caught in one, flailing back and forth to try and get it loose. Just as James snickers and approaches to see if he can help, he hears the snap of twigs under a foot—a much larger foot than Qrow’s. 

He spins around in time to see the Ursa jump and open its mouth to roar; without hesitation, James jumps in front of Qrow, catching the Grimm’s jaw on either side of his right arm. Pain flares sharp and hot from each spot the Ursa’s teeth dig in, not quite strong enough to dent or penetrate the metal, but definitely enough to trigger his sensory receptors. And right now, the only sense he has is _pain._

The agonized sound James lets out is only overshadowed by Qrow’s own yell. One second he’s still fumbling to get free of the vine, and the next, he’s jumping high over James, shoving Harbinger deep into the Ursa’s back. The Grimm releases a haunting cry before it dissipates before their eyes, turning to black dust around the blade. James exhales harshly through his nose, trying to hold in any other groans. His arm fucking _hurts._

“Shit, James,” Qrow says, thrusting Harbinger into the ground so he can use both hands to reach out and touch James’ arm. James yanks back reflexively, trying to turn away.

“It’s fine, I’m fine—”

“You nearly had your arm ripped off by an Ursa,” Qrow barks, stepping around him quickly. This time, he successfully wraps one hand around James’ wrist, the other coming up to clutch at his bicep. James inhales sharply, but he’s not fast enough to prevent Qrow from seeing the glint of his arm through the torn sleeve of his shirt. 

Qrow looks confused, realization dawning as he sees the lack of blood, fingers running into the tear and across metal. James jumps, but Qrow’s grip on his wrist is firm even as he pulls his fingers back, eyes locking with James’, searching. James settles his mouth into a thin line, saying nothing. He doesn’t owe Qrow anything, especially about this. 

It’s been years since he’s had to explain the prosthetics to anyone; since he’s had to endure the stares and whispers. Incorporating gloves into his everyday outfits had been easy enough, and his father certainly hadn’t complained about his son retaining his perfect image in public. It’s one thing to deal with his father’s disgust and disappointment, but he’d rather his people not have to find out their future leader is nothing but a broken man.

“That hurt?” Well, it’s not the question James was expecting. He stares at Qrow as the other man finally releases his arm, reaching out to retrieve Harbinger from the ground.

“I… yes,” James says carefully, not quite sure where this is going.

“Huh. Surprised Atlas tech didn’t get rid of the pain part of that whole… thing.”

“Whole thing?” James repeats. Qrow is being very casual about this. “You mean my limb?”

Qrow waves his hand. “You know what I mean.”

“They can’t wire the sensory receptors without including pain,” James explains. He supposes all of this would be a mystery to someone like Qrow who, as far as he can tell, has never lived inside a kingdom proper. Then again, even the general population of Atlas is still woefully uneducated about modern prosthetics. Roman had been shocked, to say the least, when James had finally healed and visited him for a fitting. 

“So you had the choice to feel everything or nothing?” Qrow tilts his head.

_Choice._ Ha. As if James has ever had a choice about anything in his life. As if he was even conscious when getting half his body replaced, his father insisting the doctors save his life at any cost, a cost he didn’t even know the whole extent of.

James thinks of being bed-bound for nearly a year while his body alternately rejected and accepted the metal, drugs keeping the pain at bay but rendering him nearly a zombie, his father insisting it would all be worth it in the end. 

Was it? If he’s being honest with himself, James doesn’t know if he would have done anything differently.

“Some days I wish I felt nothing,” he says honestly. _Some days I feel too much._

Qrow smiles at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You and me both.”

* * *

Mercifully, they manage to make it back to Qrow’s tent without anyone noticing the holes in his sleeve, which means no one knows about this yet besides Qrow. Ideally no one would know about it, but that ship, of course, has sailed. James is surprised to find it’s already mid-afternoon; their time spent in the forest had flown by, and their return to camp finds many people out on their own trips, presumably hunting or on patrol.

“I’ll see if I can find you a new shirt,” Qrow says when he drops James off at the entrance, face scrunched up in thought. “I guess you could wear your coat, but I have a feeling that thing was made for Atlas weather, not… everywhere else.”

He’s certainly right about that. While James appreciates the insulation keeping him warm in the endless cold of Atlas, he’s already found himself sweating in the more mild Anima climate. He considers asking Qrow about pants, too, but doesn’t want to push it. With any luck, his father is sending a search party or negotiating ransom, and he’ll be back in Atlas before it becomes a problem.

James sits down on Qrow’s bed, idly playing with the restraints and wondering how long Qrow will be gone. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say they’re tied even looser than before—like Qrow wants him to try something. James toys with the idea for a moment, as stupid as it is; it’s possible his guns are in this very tent, perhaps hidden in the chest or the bedside table. The more likely possibility is they’re in Raven’s tent, or being guarded by another bandit, but James has to consider every angle at this point.

Just as he’s about to get back up, a movement at the tent flap catches his eye. There’s nothing there for a moment, and then Yang sticks her head through, much like she had this morning. She seems surprised upon seeing James, eyes flicking back and forth to take in the whole scene.

“Hi there,” James says kindly, keeping his voice low and soothing, like he was taught to do around children. This seems to backfire, Yang’s eyes narrowing and a pout taking over her lips.

“I was looking for my Uncle Qrow. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she says, stepping into the tent fully but keeping her distance from him. “And mom said _especially_ you.” Her little arms fold over her chest, and James has to keep himself from laughing at the tough demeanor she’s trying to pull off.

“Oh, of course,” he says instead, schooling his face into a serious expression. “If we introduce ourselves, then we’re not strangers anymore, right?” He smiles when she bites her lip, nodding reluctantly. “I’m James Ironwood. What’s your name?”

Yang hesitates before planting her hands on her hips, turning up her nose proudly. “I’m Yang Xiao Long of the Branwen Tribe!”

James freezes, any response he could have come up with stuck in his throat. He looks at her carefully, taking in the unruly blond hair, the familiar wide smile on her face, and the shining violet eyes, a mixture of red and…

Taiyang’s face flashes through his mind, vibrant blue eyes crinkled at the corners, permanent lines there from the constant grin on his face. 

_Xiao Long._ Fuck. Could this girl be Tai’s daughter? But how?

“Look what I found!” Of course, Qrow chooses that moment to reappear in the tent, nearly bumping into Yang with a “woah!” and dumping the shirt in his hand onto her head. He winks at James. 

“Uncle Qrow, my _hair!”_ Yang shrieks as she pulls it off, but she’s still smiling, eyes shining up at Qrow in open admiration. 

“My bad, firecracker,” he says, turning his grin onto James, who smiles back weakly.

This is, without a doubt, the most eventful birthday he’s ever had, but James is truly ready for the surprises to be over.


End file.
